


(Don't) Hurt Me

by Imagining_in_the_Margins



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Self-Harm, Self-Insert, Suicidal Thoughts, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24531601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagining_in_the_Margins/pseuds/Imagining_in_the_Margins
Summary: After being saved from the clutches of death at the hands of two serial killers, Reader leans on Spencer to heal.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 140





	1. Chapter One

The ticking of the clock is driving me fucking insane.

It had been 16 days, 10 hours, and 37 minutes since I was saved by my own team. It had been 16 days, 10 hours, and 37 minutes since I realized I was going to live.

I barely remember that day, my memory seemingly reserved for what came before it. It was all taken up by the horrors, to the point I barely remember the days before them, too.

I couldn’t remember the fun nights out with Derek and Emily. I couldn’t remember babysitting Henry and Jack. I can’t remember the nights I’d lay on my couch and insist to Spencer that it’s normal for friends to want to cuddle sometimes. I hardly can picture the way he would look at me, clearly not believing me but not wanting to move, either.

No, instead I am forced to constantly recall the brutalization of myself and the people I couldn’t save. I’ll spare you the details— they are playing enough on loop in my mind.

I haven’t stopped hearing the screams for so long that I cant tell which belong to me anymore. Maybe that’s why when I look up I see a bloody fist print in what remains of the mirror by my door.

The fragmented pieces are mesmerizing and nauseating. The clock won’t stop. It’s the metronome keeping beat to the sounds of someone claiming what used to belong to me.

Tick tock tick tock—

 ** _Knock-knock-knock_**. 

What the fuck was that?

“(Y/n), are you there?” Spencer. He’d come by a few times before. He’d say he was leaving something outside the door and leave. I stopped checking after the second visit.

Was it really Saturday again already? That was when we used to spend time together. That feels like another lifetime now.

“I’m worried about you. Please let me in.” The words feel like knives to some piece of me that’s buried beneath the numbness.

“(Y/n). Please. I know you’re in there. My packages are still here from _six days ago_.”

He’s trying the door. Nice try, agent. It’s locked. Deadbolt, knob lock, and chain.

Taking a sip from the whiskey in front of me, I try to ignore him. He’ll go away eventually. The light from my phone lights up the room from next to me on the table. He’s calling me to see if he can hear it. As if I didn’t turn off the ringtone within minutes of getting home.

A few moments of silence as he waits. Just go home, Spencer.

“I’d like to proceed with the welfare check now, please. Open the door.” I could barely hear him, his voice as defeated as it was quiet. Did he just fucking say welfare check

I heard the sound of my locks coming undone, the terrible screeching of metal resounded through my thoughts. I didn’t move from my seat at the table.

I heard the clunking sound of my door hitting the end of the chain. I didn’t move. He couldn’t see me from where he is. Maybe he would get it now.

“Cut the fucking chain **right now**.” The sheer panic in his voice might have bothered me more before. Something told me to care. I didn’t listen.

Bolt cutters quickly snapped through the chain like a hot knife through butter. I’m vividly reminded what a hot knife feels like on my skin.

Spencer burst through the door with his gun drawn, ready to take on anything. I don’t think he was ready for me to be here, though. His arms holding the gun dropped like they had been carrying the weight of the world when he saw me.

“Hello, Dr. Reid. Didn’t know you did house calls.”

“(Y/n)… Are you alright?” I don’t think he expected me to give an honest answer to that. Why would he even ask? Of course I’m not.

“I mean, aside from someone breaking into my house just now, yeah, I’m fine.” I muttered my response, drinking the last of the golden amber liquid in my cup before pouring another. He watched me with that sharp stare that’s meant to warn you of something.

“What did you expect me to do, (y/n)?” Not break into my house, I thought. But I was too tired to protest him right now.

“ **Nobody has seen you in days.** ” That concern laced through his words angered and upset me. I hated him for making me feel like this. Couldn’t he just leave me alone?

“Well, here I am, agent. Please lock the door on your way out.“

"I’ve called you dozens of times. Your voicemail is full. You won’t even deny my calls anymore, you just let it ring. What was I supposed to think?” My apathy didn’t sit well with him. His volume was rising, to the point he was almost yelling. Incredibly bad form for a BAU agent, I thought to myself.

“That I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“I thought you were–” He paused, the tension in his body rising with his voice. “I thought you were dead.” He caught himself halfway through the words, beginning to lower his voice once more.

“Aren’t I?” A smug fake smile scrunched on my face, I looked up at him from my seat before continuing to nurse the liquor in my cup.

The floorboards creaked under his feet, and I was brought back to what it was like in the cellar. I could hear heavy footprints as someone approached my door. I could see his face over Spencer’s as he stopped in his tracks. "No. You’re not dead. Don’t say that.“

"Why the fuck are you here?” I spat the words out as I slammed the half-empty glass back on the table. He flinched at the noise. He would have never survived what I did with that kind of fear.

“Because I’m worried about you.” For a split second, his eyes are no longer on me. He’s glanced over at the gun sitting inches from my hand splayed out on the table, white-knuckled pressure against the wood.

“Great. You’re worried. What do you want me to do about that?”

“Give me your gun.” His response was immediate and authoritative. I used to love when he sounded like that. Now it just pisses me off. 

I leaned back now, still smiling as I picked up the gun, pointing it up to the ceiling in a loose, clumsy grip. “This gun?”

“I’m not kidding, (y/n). Give it to me.” Some sick part of me enjoyed being the one to hold this power. I wanted to be in control again. It was like I was an addict that just needed to hold onto something, and right now my drug of choice was that look in his eyes.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?” As the words slurred out of my lips, I tilted the gun to my temple, leaning against it like I was daring him to say what he thought I was planning. But I wasn’t planning on killing myself. The gun was there for protection more than anything. Although it did fuck-all for me last time.

“Please don’t do this.” The way his voice fractured mid-sentence broke my fantasy. He wasn’t a tool for control. I didn’t want him to be scared of me. “Please, don’t do that.” 

“Fine.” Resigned, I threw the gun on the floor between us. He braced himself for the possible sound of a gun firing, but it didn’t. It just laid there, as useless as it was before.

When he picked it up, he immediately dumped the contents of the chamber, stuffing the bullets into his pocket and tucking the gun into his waistband.

“Go ahead and leave now, Doctor. Take all the knives if you want, too. Might want to take the mirrors and light bulbs, I guess.” Spencer must not have noticed in his panic, because he turned around to see what remained of the mirror he used to know, marred with soft drips of dried blood.

That look on his face was fucking infuriating. I could hear the analysis in his mind. He had seen little girls who hate the way they look so much they blacked their dolls eyes and chopped off all their hair. He could see them in me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I commanded. He didn’t listen, and I clenched my fist, feeling the old wounds crack open underneath the cotton pads I had applied. I knew what he was going to say, but it didn’t stop him from saying it.

“You bandaged your hand.”

“Yep,” I replied, back to my previous apathy.

“You know what that means.” The hope in his voice made me feel sick. 

“We agreed not to profile each other, Dr. Reid.” It was a not-so-gentle reminder, with a saccharine but sarcastic smile.

He came closer, and the speed at which my face steeled warned him that he should stop. He did but followed with a question. “Why are you calling me that?”

I rolled my eyes, pausing for a second before stating like the fact it was, “It’s your name.”

“You don’t call me that.”

“I just did.” He used to love my wit. But right now, I think it was making him angry. I wasn’t giving him the side of me that he wanted. I’m not sure that side even existed anymore. I wonder which one of them took it from me.

“(Y/n) I understand that you’re angry. I know that you’re deeply angry and hurt. I know that right now it feels like nothing matters and that more than anything you just want to be alone…” Bingo, Dr. Reid. Right on the money. I turned to look at him as he continued his rant. “… but projecting those feelings onto me isn’t going to make me leave.”

God, he was infuriating. I couldn’t stand to look at him right now. So, I didn’t, turning back to finish the rest of what was in my cup. This time I gently placed the cup back on the table, running my nails along the glass and muttering, “Fuck off, Spencer.”

“I’m not leaving, (y/n).” My grip on the glass shifted, as unrelenting as this empathy he tried to give me. “You aren’t meant to be alone. _People_ aren’t meant to be alone, (y/n). You know that.”

Do I? The implication pissed me off, and I stood from my seat, lifting the glass and hurling it across the room in front of me as I yelled, “I said fuck off!”

The sound of the glass shattering against the clock hit me like a train. I looked like I was psychotic. He was looking at me just the same, a blend of pain and fear. Was he scared of me? I was. 

“I can’t do that,” he didn’t sound scared. He sounded relieved. Between heavy breaths, I spoke. “Why the fuck not?”

“You… You called me Spencer.” I did. I don’t remember why. Flashes of painful memories mixed with the warm ones. I can feel his hand lightly stroking my back as I fell asleep on his lap, but then I feel the hands of other men replacing them.

“The person I know is still in there. I know you are. I have to… I _want_ to help you.” I know he did, but I couldn’t let him. I couldn’t let him see what happened to me. He saw the physical result, but I couldn’t let him into the dark part of my mind that’s warped into something I hardly recognized myself.

“Please. I’m not going to just sit here and watch you wither away. You’re too important to me.”

My stomach churned, and a dark, bitter laugh crawled up my throat. “Is that why you’re here, Dr. Reid?”

The playful, ominous look in my eyes warned him that this was a trick. He took a hesitant step back as I turned to him. “What are you talking about?”

“You want to play romance, Doctor?” My fingers diligently worked despite the bandage, beginning at the top and slowly unbuttoning the oversized shirt I pulled from the back of my closet. It was the only one that didn’t hurt when it touched my skin.

“Is this what you want? To make sure you get to have me before I’m gone forever?” I cooed, my body taking on a life of its own. I’m not sure what I was trying to prove.

“You’re not going anywhere,” oh, so that little cry for attention caught his first. "And no. That isn’t what I want,“ he continued. 

"Are you sure?” My voice purred as I shrugged the fabric off my shoulders, allowing it to fall to the ground. Across my chest were bandages, which covered the evidence of what had happened to me. The wounds were starting to heal, but I wasn’t ready to look at them. Clearly, he wasn’t either.

“What’s wrong, _Spencer_?” I slurred his preferred name, “Are you not interested now that another man claimed his territory? Don’t you want to take it back?”

“Stop.” I can hear it again. Behind his instruction, he’s analyzing me. The assault victim that has taken on a hyper-sexual role to combat the powerlessness she feels. She’s craving attention and validation so badly she would re-victimize herself in an attempt to receive relief.

“The wounds are almost healed now. The doctors said I was safe to have sex again. Isn’t that nice? I appreciate their concern that the important parts of me are ready for others to use again.”

I tried to hook my finger into his waist band, to pull him closer to me. This is what I wanted to prove, I realized. I wanted him to be like all the rest. I wanted to prove that he would do the same things they did. I wanted him to kill the little bit of hope I had left.

He refused, grabbing my wrist with enough force to both stop me and hurt me, which he clearly felt bad about. The shock of pain reminded me that I was doing something stupid, but I wasn’t going to give up.

“You look at me with so much affection in your eyes… but I can see that rage, too, Spencer. I can feel it.” I grabbed his trembling hand at my wrist, joining it with both of my own as I raised it to my chest. I rested his palm against the warm, marred skin.

Something about the contact caused him to snap, the predatory shine in my eye clearly pushing him over the limit. He tore his arm away from me, but then grabbed both of my wrists, holding them apart so I couldn’t touch him again.

Here, holding me open to him, was that unhinged man I had seen before. I knew he was in there.

“Just like that. I can feel it. I bet you’re one of those guys who would love to _put me in my place_. To slam me up against a wall and take me until all I can think about is you. I’m right, aren’t I?”

I licked my lips, feeding off the acrid satisfaction I was getting from the way he, even now, felt the urge to physically dominate me.

“Do it, Spencer,” I taunted. 

He let me go. My arms dropped back to my side as he covered his face, disgusted by the sight, the very notion, of what he had just done. When he revealed his face to me once more, tears had formed in his eyes.

“I… would **never** … **_ever_** hurt you.”

I couldn’t breathe, the way his gaze dug into me, like it belonged there. It made me feel like I _wanted_ him there. He was right. I had been projecting the pain onto him, the anger and the rage. I wanted to feel it. I wasn’t ready to let it go.

“I’ve heard that before.”

He nodded, accepting the implicit blame that came with what happened to me. No one could have stopped them. No one did. It happened.

“I swear to god, (y/n), I will spend every day of my life making up for what they did. I will do everything I can… to make you happy again.” His labored breathing told me that he felt the words. He felt them cut into his soul like I felt them.

“I don’t know if that’s going to happen, Spencer.” I was being honest, and it hurt. It felt like I was ripping open the wounds on my chest again, pouring the vulnerability out of me. I had to stop it.

“Sometimes you just can’t fix shit, Spencer. Sometimes it’s just broken. Sometimes you have to just fucking let it **go**.” I covered my chest with my arms, wrapping myself up in the only comfort I felt I still had.

“I can’t.” At least he was honest. “I **can’t** let you go.”

“What do I have to do to make you hate me?” I asked, the liquor on my breath sickening even myself. “What do I have to do to hurt you enough that you will just leave?”

Spencer shook his head, wiping his face as he stepped closer to me, a tender yet cautious hand on my shoulder. He leaned down to meet my height, his other hand holding my cheek like it was the most fragile thing in the world. I forgot what his touch was like. How could I have forgotten?

“There is nothing you could do that… th-that would hurt me more than not having you in my life anymore,” his voice crackled like static, his jaw clenching behind the force of his words before melting into a pathetic utterance, “Nothing.”

The dam inside me broke, the tears I had refused to cry poured out of me like a storm. I could barely stand, doubling over as the sobs wrecked my tortured body. He caught me, like he always did, lowering down to the sticky, liquor covered floor as he held me tightly in his arms.

“Please don’t leave me,” he pleaded to me, his hands touching me not at all like the other men. I buried myself in him, yelling through the pain of what had happened into his chest. He rocked us back and forth like a mother would her crying child, and he never let me go.

“I love you so much.” Hearing his voice speak those words, not as a romantic confession so much as a promise. “Please,” he repeated, “ _please_ don’t leave me.”

I couldn’t form words yet, instead letting myself feel lost in the comforting embrace until I ran out of tears and my vocal cords were shredded to nothing. He held me still, clinging to me like I were hanging off the edge of a cliff. In a way, I suppose I was.

When I finally spoke, I could barely understand myself through the sniffling and the hoarseness. “C-Can you stay?”

“Yes,” the relief in his voice cleansing the air around us from the tension. He took a deep breath in, holding me back to his chest as he sighed.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

And he never let me go.


	2. Chapter Two

It’s been sixth months.

Six months since I stopped keeping track of when I was released from the cold, clammy grasp of death. I still think about it every day, but the memories are becoming fewer and farther between.

Instead, I fill my time keeping track of other things. Like how many times Spencer uses the word actually in a conversation (I’m starting to notice an average of at least 3 per topic).

Now my mind is less full of grotesque, mangled depictions of suffering, making room for the look of relief on Spencer’s face when he gets his first sip of coffee in the morning.

I no longer focus on the way it felt when other men touched me, because I am too busy trying to relearn what gentleness feels like as Spencer presses soft kisses on my shoulders.

You see, I do not have time nor space for the badness anymore.

It had been sixth months, and I was ready.

Saturday nights had gone back to normal, consisting of Spencer and I curled up on my couch and watching whatever foreign indie film he insisted on.

He always included subtitles for me, but I didn’t really care. What mattered most to me was not the events on the screen, but the ones happening between me and the man next to me.

I laid with my head on his lap as he absentmindedly played with my hair, staring straight ahead as the credits began to roll. In typical Spencer fashion, his eyes followed each of the names on the screen, committing them to memory.

“Sometimes, Spencer…” I started, turning onto my back, my eyes narrowing as a smile made its way across my face, “I wonder what it’s like in that big head of yours.”

“Pretty uneventful, honestly,” he admitted with a shrug.

“Somehow, I seriously doubt that.”

He licked his lips absentmindedly before finally breaking away from the screen, his attention returning to me on his lap. “What’s up? You’ve got that pensive look on your face.” He wasn’t entirely wrong. I was thinking about a lot of things. Mostly my thoughts revolved around one thing, though.

I sat up before answering, readjusting on the couch to sit next to him, one hand on his arm and the other resting on his thigh. He was watching me like I held all the answers in the universe.

“I want to kiss you.” 

Truthfully, it was an underwhelming revelation in my mind. After all, we kiss fairly regularly now. It had been at least three months since our relationship changed.

We had always been moving towards it, but after what happened, we stalled for so long. Then one night as Spencer slept on my couch, insisting I let him stay in case I got another nightmare, we gave into the temptation that had followed us for years.

That is, until I had a massive panic attack when he touched me. He was so sweet about the whole thing, but it was embarrassing as hell.

Since then, each time we kiss, I have felt more at home in his hands. Most days he can hold me and it comforts me rather than terrifies me. But even still, today feels different.

Spencer did not think what I said was underwhelming in any respect. Lacing his fingers through my hair, he pulled me to him so gently it was more like he guided me through a well-lit path back to him.

I let him. When our lips finally pressed against one another’s, I was immediately reminded of the light and warmth for me in his heart. Each time he kissed me, I could hear him promising things that I would never believe otherwise.

Things like “ _I’m sorry_ ,” “ _Thank you_ ,” and “ _I want you_.” This kiss told me something else entirely, but I wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

He tried to break apart from me, no doubt trying to pace us so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed. But I didn’t want to. Not tonight. I wanted to hold him and kiss him until all the breath left my lungs. I wanted to be able to give him myself the way I would have if we had never been interrupted.

With a growing sense of urgency, I inched closer to him until I was practically straddling his lap. He let me, taking the opportunity to continue to kiss me with a similar drive. We paused, catching our breath and recalibrating our thoughts to catch up with where we were now.

His eyes were jumping all over my face, an unsure expression as he licked his lips once more. He was going to stop me soon; I could feel it. I didn’t want him to.

“Spencer, I… I want to…”

“(Y/n), we don’t have to.” He had absolutely no delay in the reply.

“I know,” I answered, my hands making their ways to his shoulders and fidgeting with his shirt collar. “I… want to try.”

He wasn’t convinced, although from my position I could tell that his body was certainly not opposed to the act itself.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he replied quietly, making sure his hands never left me. He moved them along may arms and sides, worried that if he lifted them, touching me again might set me off. It’s happened before.

“You wouldn’t,” I said with full confidence. “You would never.”

“You don’t have to do this for me, (y/n).” Bold of him to assume it was only for his benefit, I laughed to myself. But I know what he really meant.

“Spencer, I want to be able to have sex with my boyfriend.” The words were forceful and bittersweet. “They don’t get to take that from us.”

I lifted a hand to push his hair back, caressing his face as I took a good look at the man in front of me. He was still worried like he always was. “I would go the rest of my life never being able to touch you again if that’s what I had to do to protect you. I need you to know that. _You_ are important to me.”

The words stung me the same way it hurts to clean a wound. They were promising me something valuable, but I didn’t want to think of a life without his touch.

“I know, Spencer,” I whispered. “You’re important to me, too.” Leaning forward to kiss him once more, I allowed myself to become more forward. I gave myself permission to want him.

He did not object, wrapping his arms close around me and placing me directly on his lap. I barely gasped as I made contact, feeling the way his erection pressed against my leg. He wanted me, and I wanted him.

“Please, let me try.” It was a desperate plea, and he could feel the longing in my voice. Of course, my drive had a sexual component, but there was something else too. Carefully, Spencer picked me up and carried me down the hallway to my bedroom. He laid me down on the bed as if I would shatter on impact.

We’d spent time in the bed together before. I had grown tired of waking up in a cold sweat, screaming for someone to help me only for Spencer to feel worlds away in the other room. He agreed to stay in the bed with me if I promised to wake him up whenever I needed him. Oddly enough, I didn’t have to. He always knew.

That’s why he knew now, that I needed this. I needed to try. I needed him.

He crawled into bed next to me, and when I sat up he started to help me remove my clothes. I am reminded of the way he would help me bandage my wounds. I think of how when I told him the shampoo stung the cuts on my hand, he helped me wash my hair.

I vividly remember the way I woke up one morning to find he had replaced all the broken mirrors with new ones. On each one, he had scribbled smiley faces and hearts, a reminder of how he feels when he looks at me.

He looks into my eyes as he starts to remove my shorts, dragging them slowly down my legs. He’s watching me to see if my behavior shifts, but he’s noticed something else. He returns to me, pressing his forehead against mine and closing his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this. I already know.”

My heart wrenched in my chest; he truly was the sweetest torture. A breath shuddered from my lungs as I touched him, grabbing his hand and placing it on my bare chest right over my heart. This time he’s the one who initiated the kiss, his breath heavy and his eyes half lidded as he sat in this limbo.

“I love you.” No matter the volume, his words were as clear as the sun following a storm. We stared into each other’s eyes, wondering how long it had been true before we got the courage to admit it.

“Show me,” I pleaded. I already knew it to be true, but I wanted to be sure. I wanted to experience this moment that was robbed from us. I wanted to make it new. I helped him remove his shirt, clumsily fumbling like two teenagers trying for the first time. My emotions had run so high I could feel the way my hands shook.

He helped me, ridding most of his clothes by himself while I watched him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world, because he was to me. I did not have to call to him for him to return, hovering over me filled with fear that he would somehow hurt me. As if he could.

He began at my neck, laying lazy, languid kisses across my skin. As he lowered himself a few inches at a time, he never kissed a single scar. This was his way of telling me that so much of my body is still unequivocally mine and unmarred. He wanted to show me the pieces of me that were never lost and thank me for letting him see them.

He slowed down considerably at my breasts, taking time to admire each mound with his tongue. He swirled around the peaks, sucking gently until his name fell from my lips.

“Spencer,” was my mantra that told me it was okay to love myself again.

He continued down, stopping to place a chaste, goofy kiss at my belly button. I laughed, understanding that this was him thanking the world for letting me exist and be here in this moment with him.

I ran my hand through his hair as I looked down at him full of admiration and love. He smiled at me, placing one last kiss above the waistline of my underwear. He was asking me if I was sure. I did not have a single doubt.

As I lifted my hips to help him slip them off, I tensed at the cold air hitting the hot, wet skin. I knew it would not remain that way for long.

Sure enough, Spencer’s mouth had returned on its path, although this time it began at my knee as he worked his way back up. He carefully helped reposition me so that he could have all the access he needed. I could feel the anxiety and anticipation building, but I trusted him.

Once his hot breath fanned against my hot skin, I was not scared. I was a mess of heavy pants and rolling hips, eager to finally be able to share this moment with him. He quickly obliged my pleading, dragging his tongue flat over my center, stopping at the end to flick the small bundle of nerves that had been so neglected.

I cried out at the sensation, but he knew it was not in pain. With shorter and more defined movements, he lapped at me like a starving animal. I could not stop the steady flow of moans being ripped from my throat, and my hands both found their way to his hair, gripping onto him like my life depended on it.

He didn’t mind. He had one hand holding my leg away, to maintain his access and prevent me from crushing him in my enthusiasm. I could barely look at him, worried that the sight alone may kill me.

His other hand pressed down on my hips, trying to stop me bucking wildly into his mouth, but it was impossible for me to stop. It had been the first time in months that I allowed myself to feel this way.

The next thing I noticed was the way his hand on my hip slid down my body, stopping right beside my entrance. He was asking me for permission once more, and this time I had to look at him.

Trying to gain any composure at all, I opened my eyes, gasping at the way he attached himself to the pearl at the apex of my legs, beginning to apply a soft suction.

“S-Spencer,” I tried to speak, “Spencer, please. Touch me. Touch me everywhere you want.”

His mouth occupied, he answered by allowing himself to slip one finger inside of me. It went in with ease, although my muscles momentarily tried to shut him out. With our mixed patience and desire, he was able to get two fingers into my, gently stroking my walls from the inside as his tongue continued its assault.

My toes began to curl painfully from how tightly wound I had become, and I cried out again as I felt Spencer swirling around the same point, my legs and hands tightening even more around him.

I threw my head back, arching up into him as I found my release. His fingers pumped into me and my legs trembled around him so violently I thought I might actually pass out. I couldn’t speak now, overcome with the sheer ecstasy he had given me.

I don’t even know how long it lasted, as time seemed to behave differently in this moment with him. But as I came down, he still had not stopped until I released him from my grip, my hands and legs falling to the side as I let out a tiny whimper to signal my current state.

He stopped, looking up at the satiated mess in front of him with a tender smile. He looked so pleased with himself. I was also quite pleased with him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand, he then cleaned his other hand with his mouth. A reminder of the hunger he had for me.

Finally able to breathe and talk again, although my words were a bit slurred, I held out my hands for him. “Come back here. Come to me.”

He took my hand and kissed it, as if to say “ _I never left_.”

Still, his lips made their way across my skin during his ascent. When he came face to face with me again, I pulled him down into a deep, open mouthed kiss. The heady taste of my arousal still on his tongue, I drowned in the taste of us combined.

As my hips started to roll against him, his hardness pressing against my leg, he stopped me. Backing up just enough to look me in the eyes, he desperately insisted to me. “We can stop. We don’t have to keep going. I am already as happy as I ever need to be.”

I laughed, recognizing the truth in his words. He hadn’t looked this content— no, overjoyed— in such a long time. “No thank you,” I joked back. “I haven’t gotten everything I wanted yet.”

This time when our lips met, it was through smiles and lighthearted laughter. It was his way of reminding me that this could be fun. It did not have to be suffocating and emotional to be intimate and powerful. Laughter was our love language.

It was my hand that guided him to my entrance, and I took a deep breath as his hips began to tilt forward. He never took his eyes off of me, and though suddenly bashful, I tried to meet them.

Cautiously, he began to sink into me, the process drawing a low moan from my chest. My fingernails dug into his forearms on either side of me as I tried to anchor myself in this moment, here with him.

Once he was fully within me, he stopped, his forehead meeting mine again. He closed his eyes, letting out a breath from the relief he undoubtedly felt in this moment. My grip on him loosened, allowing me to ghost my fingertips over his skin. I swear I could hear the sounds of our hearts trying to beat in sync.

“I love you.” His voice cracked as he repeated the words, “I love you so much.”

My hands traced up his biceps, over his shoulders and around his neck. I pulled him down into my embrace, letting him rest his head next to mine as he began to move again.

It took all of the effort I had not to hyperventilate, the sensation of him inside me stretching me open as he pivoted his hips bringing me to new heights. Letting my eyes rest, I tried to commit each feeling I was experiencing to memory. I envied his eidetic memory so badly right now.

His weight on my body caused me to forget that we could exist as two separate beings. His arms unlike a cage and more like a home, his lips now dragging against her neck as we melded together.

This time his kisses asked me if I was doing okay, if I needed anything in the world from him. I was confident he would get it for me if I did, but in this moment all I needed was him.

It did not change as his pace quickened, the friction of our bodies lessened by the slickness of sweat and arousal. He whispered my name over and over like a prayer in my ear between groans.

“Spencer,” my voice returned more like a croaking as he continued to thrust into me in a deep, consistent rhythm. I wrapped my legs around his waist, canting my hips to allow him easier access.

He lifted his head to look into my eyes, leaning his weight on one arm so he could use his free hand to grab my hand tightly in his. The reverence he shared with me broke down any walls that still remained between us.

I willed myself not to cry as I felt all of my muscles begin to shake under the weight of his love in each movement. Thank god his eyes were closed as I felt tears well in my eyes, terrified that he would stop immediately at any sign of distress. But that’s not why I was on the verge of tears. I was not scared or hurt. I had just come to the realization that no matter how long I wait to say it, it would still be true.

Sure enough, his eyes opened right as a tear slid down the side of my face. Thankfully, the smile beaming on my face was enough for him to realize that he did not need to stop. Instead, he slowed down, his gentle gaze asking me to say what I needed to say. What he needed to hear.

“I just… I love you.” I almost laughed as I said it, because it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you more than you could ever imagine.”

“Somehow I seriously doubt that,” he said with a cheeky, proud grin meant to distract me from the tears forming in those beautiful brown eyes.

He was not prepared for the way my hips began to rock up towards him, encouraging him to take control and lose himself in the moment. He agreed, releasing my hand and using it to lift my hips closer to him.

Each time he moved now, the speed increased until he was pumping into me at a feverish pace. My cries of pleasure were now silent as I writhed underneath him, on the brink of orgasm.

“I’m here,” he said in the most tender voice he could muster between the growls of pleasure slipping from his lips, “I love you.”

It was the last thing I needed to hear before I could let go, finally finding my second release. He somehow held me tighter as the orgasm ripped through my body, his body also quaking as my arousal fluttered around his, drawing him further into me.

As I gasped for air, his lips met my neck in frantic, sloppy kisses. My hands clawed at his back as I finally began my descent, enticing more kisses and even deeper thrusts as he was quickly approaching his own climax.

When it finally hit him, his thrusts staggered until he finally sheathed himself fully within me. The pulsating warmth that spread within me was overwhelming and intoxicating.

His body collapsed on top of mine just enough to not be suffocating. I breathed in the air we shared, reveling in the frenzied beating of our hearts.

Settled and satisfied, we lay together as a mix of two bodies that had forgotten how to exist without one another. The relative silence in the room reminded me of how much smaller my world was when I was with him.

Spencer, able to breathe at a normal rate once more, lifted himself off of me, drawing out of me with one final mixed groan of pleasure from the two of us.

He laid down next to me, plopping his hand down on my stomach for me to hold. I laughed at how informal he could be; I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I touched his hand, unable to exert any force as my body still tried to recover from what had just happened. He was the one to break the silence, but only barely.

“Thank you,” he whispered, looking at me with some mixture of guilt and genuine happiness. He had nothing to feel badly about.

“Thank you?” I asked, imploring him to expand on the simple phrase.

“For loving me back.” I had to laugh at my incredulity, unable to comprehend how this was something he needed to thank me for. The pathetic, sappy look on his face melted as I was able to grasp his hand. I turned my head to him, pulling his hand up and planting a tiny kiss on the back of it.

“I never stood a chance.”


End file.
